


Grief and Loss

by Sarah_M



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Dark Jack, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Not Happy, Post-Episode: s05e21 Meridian, This wouldn't happen - just so we're clear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 11:29:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16196651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_M/pseuds/Sarah_M
Summary: So here she is standing in the low light of his porch at an inappropriate hour, with red eyes and dried tears on her cheeks. Her fingers curl into her palms to quell the nerves there while she waits for him to answer the door. When it finally opens, Jack stands still in the doorway, scrutinising her silently. His lack of greeting does nothing to help her sweaty palms or her already fragile emotional state. She notes the tumbler of amber liquid he holds in one hand and she wonders quickly if that’s something she could have too.“Can I come in?” Her voice cracks and she hates how immediately she has given herself away. Wearing her heart on her sleeve.





	Grief and Loss

**Author's Note:**

> This is deeply unfluffy and certainly won't leave you feeling warm and fuzzy. You've been warned. 
> 
> Unbeated. I've combed through it but you won't shock me if you tell me you've found a mistake. Apologies.
> 
> FYI - Jack is an effing gentleman and this would never happen. But apparently this fic exists now so you might as well have it.

 

Showing up at his door late in the evening is a mistake.

Sam knows it’s a bad idea but in her grief she’d thrown jeans and shirt on, grabbed her car keys and found her way here. They’re a team after all. They’re friends. In any other circumstance she thinks she’d end up talking to Daniel. He’d never turn her down - always ready to be there for someone if they needed it. However Daniel is the reason her insides are fractured. She can’t go to him. He’s dead. Ascended - whatever the hell that means. There’s no body, no way to lay him to rest, no normal grieving process for her follow. What she wouldn’t give to be able to go through the motions right now - but she can’t because he’s just _gone._

So here she is standing in the low light of his porch at an inappropriate hour, with red eyes and dried tears on her cheeks. Her fingers curl into her palms to quell the nerves there while she waits for him to answer the door. The televisions soft glow through the front window gives away the fact that he’s home and when she hears the volume muffle lower it tells her he’s still awake.

When it finally opens, Jack stands still in the doorway, scrutinising her silently. His lack of greeting does nothing to help the anxiety in her sweaty palms or her already fragile emotional state. She notes the tumbler of amber liquid he holds in one hand and she wonders quickly if that’s something she could have too.

“Can I come in?” Her voice cracks and she hates how immediately she has given herself away. Wearing her heart on her sleeve. Showing that she is hurting. That she needs him.

“Not sure yet,” he answers, his voice is low and eyes are dark.

“Please?” It sounds so pitiful, even she can hear that.

He cocks his head to the side, seemingly unfazed by her emotional state. She wonders if he expected her to show up. If he did then he knows her better then herself - since she certainly didn’t think she’d end up here. Contrary to his manner, he half surprises her when he opens the door wider for her to come in.

“I’m not good company right now Carter. And the only thing I can offer you to drink is water or whiskey,” he tells her as he heads towards his kitchen. “Personally, I recommend the whiskey.”

Following him is something she’s always been good at doing and now isn’t any different. “Okay.”

Wordlessly he grabs a glass and pours her a few fingers from the partially empty bottle already set out on the bench. A jolt of desire hits her the moment his fingers brush over hers when he passes her the drink. She’s not sure if it was intentional or not. Usually they are so careful about touching. Instead of reading into it any further, she tries to squash the feeling down and takes a sip of the drink. The burn in her throat and stomach is a welcome distraction to overwhelming grief that’s consuming her.

“So what do you want?”

The bluntness of his question catches her off guard and she doesn’t like the way his voice lacks the usual warmth that she typically finds so comforting. “I don’t know - to talk maybe?”

“I’m not much of a talker and I can’t say I’m interested in talking about what I think you’re here to talk about.”

Her brows pinch together, annoyance flaring at his words. “Daniel you mean? You’re not interested in talking about _Daniel._ ”

“No.”

“Our friend Daniel. Who is dead.” She slows the words down, speaking carefully, as if that somehow will change his attitude.

“I remember Carter, I was there, but I’m really not your guy right now,” he says frankly.

“No. Daniel is. That’s half the damn problem.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything. Nothing. God! Just tell me I’m not the only one feeling like this?” Frustration isn’t the sort of emotion she would usually show him. Then again neither are the tears that are prickling at her eyes. If she had to pick one of the two she’d rather have the former opposed to the later.

“You’re not. But I have my very own solo pity party happening already Carter and I didn’t ask for it to be for two.”

The hollowness that has been pulling inside her chest begins to swirl around, morphing into something different. “Yeah, I can see that,” the words are bitter as they leave her mouth.

“Is that anger I hear in your voice, _Major_?”

It’s infuriating her how much he wants to shut her down; shut her out. “Don’t be like that. Don’t be an ass. Don’t try and make me hate you.”

He seems to contemplate her words carefully. “You should hate me,” he finally says plainly in reply.

“I don’t and I don’t blame you either.” Maybe that’s something he needs to hear.

Silence hangs between them for a moment and his eyes drag over her form, taking her in from head to toe in an overt way that she’s not use to. “You really shouldn’t be here,” he warns her.

More silence.

Then suddenly he’s crowding her against the bench. His body almost - but not quite - pressing into hers. She can smell the whiskey on his breath as his eyes stare down into hers with intensity she has never felt from him before.

A warm finger grazes her arm just below her shoulder and she turns her head to catch the action. Watching fascinated as the backs of his fingers begin to slide enticingly slow down her bare arm - his fingers still enclosed around his glass. Her eyes are fixated on the illicit touch - and it _is_ illicit. It isn’t a casual touch. It is an undeniably sexual touch. Her lips part to make way for the little ragged puff of breath that’s released. Then his other hand grips her chin and jaw to turn her attention back to him, forcing her eyes to meet his again.

The usual softness in his brown eyes is missing, making way for something much darker. She is pretty sure she can identify it as arousal, even if she has never seen it expressed so plainly on him. He continues the motion down her arm, not releasing her jaw, holding her gaze.

“You. Shouldn’t. Be. Here.” The pad of his thumb at her chin roughly traces over her lips and the sigh that she lets out in response is telling of her own immediate need. The hand traveling down her arm stops at her wrist, and she can hear the sound of his glass being discarded on the bench behind her. A little part of her is panicking - what does two free hands mean for her? She should stop him, she should go, she should put her drink down, she should slip out from between him and the cabinetry and make a hasty exit before this goes any further… she should.

Later, she’ll realise that not leaving is also a mistake.

“This is the part where you play the good little solider Carter and you go home,” his voice is low and gravelly as he offers her an out. He leaves her enough time to respond, to say something or not say something and get the hell out of there. Instead she shakes her head ever so slightly in his grasp, her eyes staying fixed on his. “No? Trust me when I tell you that’s the wrong answer.”

He’s quick to relieve her of her glass - quicker still at slipping both his hands under the hem of her shirt to grip almost painfully at her hips. Nudging her legs apart with a knee he settles her center against his thigh and urges her to roll her hips. She obliges, unsure yet if it’s a blessing or a curse that she’s wearing jeans. “Is this what you came here for?” he voice rasps against the shell of her ear.

She doesn’t know where she should put her damn hands and she settles on gripping his shirt. Her head swims at her arousal, at his voice, his touch, his overwhelming closeness. The nature of his behaviour should perhaps worry her but as screwed up as it might sound, it’s an utter turn on. That alone should be a red flag. She can’t help the moan that escapes her as his teeth catch her ear lobe and tug none too gently.

His too firm hold on her sides eases up slightly as he looks down between them; seemingly satisfied that she’ll keep the repetitive rocking up of her own volition. She wonders if she should be at least a little embarrassed that she’s apparently more than willing to grind herself against his leg before he’s even kissed her. “Don’t stop,” he instructs firmly. The words send more heat rushing to her center.

Tangling his fingers into her hair, he tugs at it, tilting her head to the side to expose more of her neck to him. His mouth drags along the sensitive skin, his barely there stubble scratching her as his lips, tongue and teeth explore her. Finding the spot that makes her squirm and sigh the most - the spot that makes her fingers reach out to dig into his forearms - he sucks hard. Nipping at the skin. Soothing the ache with his tongue. It should bother her that he wants to mark her this way.

“Are you mine?” he murmurs the question against the bruised skin on her neck. Her answer comes out as a long groan - which apparently isn’t good enough. “Answer me,” he coaxes.

His eyes meet her's again, which by now are surely glazed - hazy with a desire that’s taken over her completely. “Yes,” she whispers.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” his mouth hovers over her lips, just short of touching them.

“Yes.”

“Ask nicely.”

“ _Please_ kiss me.” She is almost appalled at how quickly the response leaves her lips. Her hands roam freely over his clothing now, touching as much of him as she can while she continues to grind against him.

His lips meet hers heatedly and she opens her mouth to him without delay. Whiskey lingers on his tongue and she can taste it against hers; she wonders how much he’s had to drink before she arrived. The present moment draws the idle thought away, the delicious reality that he’s finally kissing her is overpowering. The hand that splayed over his chest snakes up to curl around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to her, relishing in the heat of his skin beneath her palm. The way he kisses her is exhilarating - she’s fantasised about it enough to over think it - he’s seems to be in perfect control even though she’s positively melting for him.

The rhythm she’s set for her hips falters momentarily and his hands palm at her ass, urging her on again, ensuring she keeps up her pace. Then he kneads at her breasts over her shirt, thumbing over her hardened nipples through the fabric. He breaks the kiss for a moment so they can take in some much needed air. “Unbutton your shirt,” he orders gruffly against her mouth.

He fingers are shaky as they refuse to co-ordinate with the instructions her brain sends down to them. Unable to focus on anything more than one button at a time, her body stills and she misses the moving pressure against her sex. Willing her fingers to go faster than they are, when she finally pops the last button his hands instantly cover her lace clad breast. Every time he pinches at the pebbled peaks her head lulls back and more heat shoots to her center, flooding her. 

His mouth meets hers again and he catches her moans before they can properly leave her. Arching into his hands, whimpering into his mouth, keening against him, she thinks she might be able to come undone like this. He tugs her lower lip between his teeth as he pulls away from her again. “Do you want me to touch you?” His voice is husky and tempting.

The idea of him delving into her heat sounds close to perfect and she responds with a throaty, “ _Yes_.”

“Touch yourself first,” he breathes against her ear.

She’s so keyed up; she’s instantly undoing her jeans and dragging the zipper of her fly down. His hand covers the back of hers when there’s enough practical space created to access her. Their hands slide together into her underwear. She wants to feel him exploring her slick folds and she expects he’ll take over for her quickly, but his hand doesn’t move an inch from its place over hers. Writhing wantonly against her own well practiced touch, circling at her sensitive bundle of nerves, she lets out a throaty hum at the familiar pleasure coiling within her.

“Beg me to touch you.”

The words vibrate through her and there is zero hesitation, “Please - _please touch me.”_

Despite fulfilling his request he doesn’t touch her and instead his hand leaves her and withdraws from her jeans. He pulls away, taking a good step back and stares at her intently. Her hair mussed, lips swollen, neck marked, shirt unbuttoned and one hand in her underwear bringing herself off.

At first she thinks he wants to watch her - but his expression is wrong. The darkness in his eyes (the one she should have taken more notice of) coupled with his stern features creates an unsettling, tense atmosphere that lingers in the space around them.

“Look at you. Doing everything I tell you to without a second thought,” the words sound more like an accusation then a compliment. “You’d go to your knees for me right now if I told you to,” his voice is far bitterer than it should be during a moment like this.

It’s _wrong._

Her hand stills in her pants and her entire body freezes up - even her lungs stop her breath from escaping. Suddenly she feels as though she’s observing herself from outside her own body as shame slams into with an unstoppable force.

“You came here for a comfort I can’t give you. I told you to go. Yet here you are ready and willing to debauch yourself for me after a few short minutes. What does that say about you I wonder?”

Her wide eyes stare at him in shock as she listens to the wounding words that leave his mouth. She’s instantly humiliated by her state of undress. Hurt reels through her veins and latches onto the pain that she’d managed to suppress for a brief few moments. It grows exponentially at each beat of her heart, as she has no idea what possible way she can remove her wet fingers from between her legs without dying of mortification.

“ _Now_ you should hate me.”

And she does, because he just took something singularly special to her and stamped all over it. Her feelings for him. Feelings that he’s supposed have for her too. And it’s true; she certainly would do anything for him. He’s just thrown that back in face for the sake of his own need to drown in self-loathing, in guilt, in grief. Casting her eyes down, she yanks her hand from her pants and tries to do up her fly and button her shirt as quickly as possible, pretending that he’s not watching her every trembling movement as she does.

He doesn’t say another word.

When she’s properly dressed again, unshed tears well in her eyes she meets his gaze once more. “You are not the first man to try to make me feel ashamed of myself,” her voice breaks, “But never in a million years would I have thought you’d be the one to actually do it.”

If she was another sort of person, she’d stay and yell at him, throw a drink in his face, maybe even slap him across the cheek for acting this way; for hurting her like this. She’s not that sort of person though and she’s not an idiot either. It’s her anger he’s really after and she’s not going to give him a single ounce of anything more from her.

Instead she leaves him standing alone in his kitchen.

He doesn’t follow her or come after her - not that she’d ever really expect him to.

A fury now melds with the ache of loss that was already inside her. Tomorrow she’ll have to go back to work with him and pretend like he hasn’t taken away something meaningful from them both. Pretend as if their someday hasn’t been tarnished by this.

The rational part of her brain that tells her he’s probably drunk and probably hates himself right now. If she can hold onto that then maybe, _maybe_ one day she can forgive him. The problem is there’s no possible scenario available now where she gets naked with Jack O’Neill and her mind doesn’t instantly sink back into _this_ moment; into _this_ feeling _._

It’s another loss that really fucking hurts.

Now she has two things to grieve for.

 


End file.
